I Rise, I Rise, I Rise...

Question.

What is the one poem that every black person in America, no matter the age, region, or socio-economic status, is all too familiar with, even though they may not know every line?

Think about it.
You've heard it in movies. Maybe you were compelled to read it in English class during Black History Month. You've seen seen a hundred way-too-grown eleven year-old girls in Sunday dresses schashay knock-kneededly across stages, snapping their fingers and twirling their hips while reciting it. Ahhh...now, you know. What else could it be?

Still I Rise, by Maya Angelou, is a classic piece of literature that addresses the resilience and pride of a people that have been continuously oppressed. This powerful poem suggests that even though someone, or a group of someones, has been looked upon with scorn, that they can walk with their heads held high because there is a greater spirit that is within them. Powerful stuff, right?

Of course. Even if they say you're not good enough and get upset when you behave as if you're not only good enough, but better than they ever imagined, don't let that keep you from continually rising: rising above oppression, contempt, and doubt.

This poem is an anthem for confidence and self-realization.

So, my next question is: since so many love and appluad this poem, why do they behave like those antagonistic oppressors in the piece?

Basically, I'm talking about haters. Not your run of the mill haters that litter the verses of every rapper's song. I mean genuine, real-life people that seem to get angrier with each second of your happiness. I'm talking about people that shine when they find out that things aren't floating smoothly on your end. I mean the ridiculous people who would prefer that you walk with your chin in the middle of your chest instead of your helad held high. Damn them!

I've been told on more than one occasion that I'm arrogant or conceited. I've always disagreed. I simply say that I have a healthy dose of self-confidence and a high opinion of myself. And why shouldn't I? After all, I am the hope and the dream of the slave. Aren't I?

In elementary school, 90 percent of the fights I was involved in started off just like this:

A nice, well-groomed, curly-haired and chocolatey little boy is walking down the hall. Then, out of nowhere, a few menacing figures appear. One of these disheveled hooligans growls, "You thank you cool, huh?" or "Oh, who dis nigga thank he is?" And the ensuing brawl usually results with the cute one on the receiving end of blows from the few less fortunate ruffians. But, still I rose.

But even today. People tend to get upset at my level of confidence.

Does my coolness upset you? (I replaced sassiness with coolness. I've never been sassy a day in my life.)

I do have to admit: I think I'm cool as hell. But it's not that I try to be; I think the combination of my DNA and specific factors in my upbringing put a sort of Billy Dee factor in my blood. It's kinda like a cool evolution. Only the suave survive. I now some other cool people. But some wear a facade of cool that you can see right through.

The way I walk and talk seem to upset some people. I must admit, my walk is special. I don't even remember where it started, but I remember people commenting on it during the 5th grade awards assembly. And even then, I had parents making slick comments about me winning a bunch of awards. "Why he winning so much?" "There are other students out here, you know." "I took off of work to see somebody else's child win everything?" How you gonna get mad a kid because he's a better student than your child? You should be mad at your child for not doing better or yourself for not motivating your dumb ass kid like my mama motivated me.

And I'm sure that this blog may be interpreted as another example of the size of my ego. But what did you expect?

Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops, weakened by my soulful cries?

Too bad. Because like the Phoenix from the ashes; like the constant price of gas is, like what high heels do to asses,